Chapter Ten #2
Like he’s been waiting for this moment since that night in the Motel.
That softness lasts about two seconds before something in me gives way and before I know what I’m doing, I’m kissing him back.
Harder and angrier.
Like I’ve got a point to prove, though I couldn’t tell you what the fucking point is. His other hand slides to my waist and mine fist in his shirt, dragging him closer as the kiss turns heated fast, all the words we haven’t said properly catching fire between us.
And Christ, he feels too good.
Too easy.
Too fucking real.
Wolfe responds with a low, needy groan that vibrates against my mouth, his free hand cradling the curve of my neck, thumb tracing the pulse beating wildly there.
Our lips part, tongues sliding together in a slick, heated dance, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint sweetness of his breath.
It's all warmth and tempting, every stroke igniting sparks that spread through my goddamn veins.
The kiss deepens, our bodies drawing flush, as his chest rises to meet mine, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against my thigh through our clothes.
My hands roam up his back, nails grazing the muscles beneath his shirt, while his hand cups my jaw, tilting my head to claim my mouth more fully.
Our tongues tangle, wet and hungry, as I suck gently on his lower lip, drawing out another soft moan that sends a jolt right to my cock. Visons of the other night replay in my head.
How good he felt when I sank into him. The sight of him on his back, taking me like he’d waited so long for it.
Fuck.
We melt into each other, the world narrowing to the slide of his tongue exploring mine, the way his hips shift subtly, grinding his cock against mine just enough to tease.
Suddenly his grip on my wrist loosens, and he pulls me closer. Skin flushes hot where we touch, breaths coming in shared gasps between kisses that leave us both trembling with want, and then I realize.
This time, there's no Echo in the middle.
No excuses and no fucking buffer.
It's just us.
That's what snaps me out of it.
For one wrecked second, I melt completely, leaning in deeper, wanting more with every fiber of my being. But the realization hits like a wave—the raw vulnerability of it all, exposed and real, pulling me back.
I shove him off me hard enough that he stumbles back a step.
The whole garage goes cold and bright again.
Wolfe looks at me, breathing hard, mouth red from kissing, and I hate how much I still want to drag him right back in.
“Thorne—”
“Don’t.”
My voice comes out flat this time. Sharper. Colder.
I grab my helmet off the bench, kill the speaker, flick off the work light over my bay, then the strip above the bench too. One by one. Fast. Like shutting the place down will help me shut this down with it.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
I don’t look at him when I shoulder past. I just head straight for the side door, pulse going mental, mouth still burning, whole body lit up with the exact thing I’ve spent days trying not to admit.
Want.
Him, and Christ, that’s bad enough on its own.
What makes it worse is the shame that comes right in behind it, hot and immediate.
The embarrassment of how fast I gave in.
How easy it was. How for those few seconds I was all over him like I hadn’t spent the last week acting like none of this was real.
Like I hadn’t been dodging him, blanking Echo, pretending I was above the whole bloody thing when really I’ve just been scared of what happens if I stop pretending.
“You can’t run from this forever, you know,” he calls after me.
And fuck, I can hear it in his voice.
The hurt. Not just frustration, or anger. Hurt.
I did that. I put that bloody shit there.
That lands somewhere ugly in my chest, sharp enough to make me want to stop, turn around, say something that doesn’t make me sound like a complete coward.
But I don’t, because I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for one night, and if I look at him again right now, I don’t trust myself not to go straight back and make this even worse.
So I shove through the side door and let it slam behind me.
The night air hits me hard and humid, but it doesn’t do much.
I’m still too hot, too wound up, and aware of my own body in a way that’s equal parts humiliating and impossible to fucking ignore.
My skin feels too tight and my head is a fucking mess.
My mouth still feels like him.
Blood brilliant.
Absolutely fucking brilliant.
I stalk across the lot, jaw locked, keys already in my hand, trying not to think about the look on his face, or the way his voice cracked around that last line, or the fact that I know, really know—I hurt him.
And the worst part?
Some selfish, horrible part of me is hurt too.
Like I’m the one who got cornered, after all I’m the one who’s been forced into honesty
Like him kissing me back, wanting me back, is somehow the problem, instead of the fact that I can’t seem to handle it without panicking and bolting like a dickhead.
I get to my bike and jam the key in harder than necessary, my hands still not fully steady. I yank my helmet on, mostly because I need something between me and the world for a minute, then swing onto the seat and start the engine.
The growl of it cuts through the dark, low and rough and familiar.
I sit there for one second too long with both feet planted, the bike idling under me, my whole body still buzzing with the kiss and the shame and the guilt of knowing exactly what I left standing back in that garage.
Then I rev once, too hard, and tear out of the lot before I can change my mind.